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by orphan_account



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Ficlet, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27275836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: This is Fate, Thanatos thinks.
Relationships: Ares/Thanatos (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 110





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**Author's Note:**

> Orphaned 2020/12/30

Perhaps this was merely how it was meant to be.

Because Death always follows War, and War cannot be without Death.

So Thanatos muses, quietly, if this was Fated, if his sisters had carefully weaved his string of destiny to be so interwoven with Ares at every level, to be so entwined as coiling serpents. So instrincally linked. Inevitably drawn close. Intimately connected—he wonders if the Fates had convened together on that. Do the Moirai giggle? Perhaps they shared a good natured, gleeful snicker together, at what a story they spun for their brother. When he positions himself on the outside to look in, to truly consider all the details, it would make sense, wouldn’t it; War and Death. The one is an inescapable presence for the other. What a comforting thought, Thanatos thinks. That he can always know he will have a soothing shadow to follow him, and to follow in turn. To know that loneliness is no longer his domain to keep.

Thanatos keeps no dwelling as his home, not truly. The House may be a place of his visitation, but it is not his residence. Denizen of the Underworld he may be, he is needed everywhere at all corners of the Surface, and holds no abode or den or cave as his own. And there is no need that exists within him to stake his claim on any niche, when he stands beneath the shade of tree and finds himself tolerating the brightness of that most bothersome sun. There is no extinguishing of life here. No throngs of men defiling the air with their battle cries, no spill of blood. But he stays, regardless. As does Ares, with him, under the tree. 

And this must be love, Thanatos thinks, that he should clean Ares's armour from its dirt and grime and gore without a thought of complaint, without a hint of annoyance, and for Ares to wipe his scythe from any blemishes, to sharpen his blade with whetstones he himself collected, with no discontent. That he feels only brimming gratification that seeps into his expression, to see the results of his work when Ares dons his ivory white guard free of any imperfection, to revive his own weapons, and know it was caressed so carefully and attentively with calloused hands. And this must be love, when those same calloused hands embrace each side of his face and he can flutter his eyes shut and allow himself to be held.

And this is a _want,_ a deep, primal want that courses through his very bones and set him to tremble, when Thanatos looks into red eyes that pierce him as a blade, when he carefully allows his chiton to slip off his shoulder, to have his breath hitch when Ares bores his sights at every inch of his form. The clattering of his armour is a distant noise that exists a lifetime away, as the world fades and his heart beats loudly in his ears, as the cool air kisses at his skin made bare, and Ares is an ever captivated audience made rooted to where he stands when Thanatos breathes in a shuddering breath. This is a debilitating and nearly painfully overpowering want, when his hands will not cease in their excited quivering, when he takes Ares's own, and they convene upon a cot that feels like velvet, when Ares engulfs him, when they breathe the same air, when their bodies become one, and Ares becomes his first, his last, his only.

Thanatos's sisters, the Keres, spirits of violent death, are of Ares's retinue as he himself is, drawn to the violence and carnage of a battle that stains a field red for centuries. And they are linked as he, when they feast upon the corpses, as he silently reaps those who attempt to cling to life in vain. But Ares does not watch the Keres and their work. Ares sets his sights solely on he who wields a scythe, with something warm in his chest.

And this had to be Fated, Thanatos knows, when Ares smiles at him, one that reaches his deep crimson eyes. Perhaps he should find out how to reach his sisters to extend his thanks.

The Fates hold no favourites nor grudges, but he cannot help but feel favoured, when Ares leans forward, and he meets him halfway.

**Author's Note:**

> War and Death are meant to be, I speak this into existence.


End file.
